Disclaimer: This is but one star in the universe that is LOST. That is all I own-this one star, this story. I do not, and never will, own the universe of LOST.
At the End of all Things
The lone figure watched the horizon.
It was ironic, really, that he should still have hope of rescue. That after so long, he still had not extinguished the signal fires.
And who was there to rescue? Nobody but him, a lone sentinel waiting for a sign. A lone, starved man.
It's not like they would still be searching. After twenty years you kind of gave up the hope that you would ever find them. Or that you would ever be found.
But he still sat, day and night, his eyes scanning the horizon, looking for a ship, a plane, anything…
He had come to realize long ago that he would be the last to die. He never went back to the graveyard anymore. The memories were too painful, and it would only remind him how alone he was.
He remembered how he had thought that the Island was a new Beginning for him. He also remembered wondering why he wasn't one of the passengers to die when the plane had crashed. Wondering why he was counted among the Survivors.
The days and the nights were one to him. Time didn't matter anymore on the Island. It never really had. The surf continued to move in and out each day and each night-and always the horizon was the same. There was never anything to mar it's perfection.
He had also come to realize that this was what Hell really was.
An eternity all alone, the people you counted among your family long dead and gone, just empty skeletons in the god-forsaken earth, and nothing but memories and false hope to keep him company and the silence of the everlasting surf and wind and the occasional whispers in the jungle.
But the day was fading, and, he knew, so was he. No ship was going to come; no one was going to rescue him.
Over the years the Survivors had come to realize that they would never be found. It was the day that Sayid had stopped trying to get the transmitter to work, the day that Shannon referred to the hut she shared with Sayid as home for the first time without knowing. It was the day that Charlie stopped telling everyone that he played bass in a band called Draveshaft, or when Kate stopped thinking about her past and what would happen to her if they were ever rescued-the day she learned to get on with her life. Or the day when Claire had her second child and Charlie began building themselves a home away fromm the caves. Or when Jack set up his own medical station. And when Michael finally stopped working on building a raft to get him and Walt off the Island. But mostly, it was the day that everyone realized they had no more hope. That they didn't need the hope. That they lived for each other. That they survived for each other.
But over the years their numbers had dwindled down. They had begun with forty-eight, then after the first five years there were forty-two. The graveyard began having more and more little carved wooden crosses. And now, there was only one Survivor left.
He began to think that he would never get off the Island. That those who died were in fact, the lucky ones. They were the ones who had gotten rescued. They had made it off the Island.
Twenty-one years to the day of the crash, a ship could be seen headed for the Island. It was heading for the smoke it saw in the distance of a dying signal fire.
The rescuers searched the beach.
But there was nothing except the charred remains of huts. Clothes were scattered along the beach, and so were possessions.
There was no one to be found.
They did find the graveyard, however. And they read the names off of the crosses.
Boone, Jin, Sawyer, Sayid, Shannon, Locke, Kate, Hurley, Michael, Sun, Claire, Walt, Jack…
There was a fresh grave beside the one with the cross marked 'Claire'. The crew knew then, that there was no one to rescue. They read the name off of the cross.
Charlie.
He was the last to die, for the grave was so fresh. But who had buried him?
They came at last to the understanding.
The dead.
The dead had come back, to bury the last of their own. The dead had buried the man named Charlie.
On the grave there was a piece of paper, yellowed with age. The captain picked it up.
It was a flight manifest.
The names were still visible, though what flight it was he could not tell. He read the names off the manifest. Some were crossed out-if he had counted the names that weren't he would have counted forty-eight.
Slowly he turned the paper over. In a scrawled, hastily written script he read:
Buried here are the Survivors of Oceanic Flight 815. I am the last.
-Charlie Pace
At the End of all Things.